“Yes, I remember. And I’ll do better,” said Mareth, hoping he hadn’t damaged this new relationship. He turned his attention back to the table. “I agree, we need the curfew to end. We only have three days left to organize the districts and to get more guild support. Folstencroft, in Alana’s absence, do you have a good view of where we are in potential votes?”
“Yes, my lord,” said the secretary. “The votes of the people of Unedar Halt, already cast, make it very close by my calculations. But the death of Lady Kingsley sent some of her supporters to Eden, so he’s still in the lead. With a number of merchants and other wealthy families still undeclared, there are likely ten votes between us. And of course, this assumes we can still organize all of the districts in the time we have left, but we have a much larger group of volunteers now.”
“That is good news. But we’re still behind. So how do we make up the difference?” Mareth asked the group at large.
“The interesting thing will be if any of the nobles change their votes through fear of commoner uprising,” said Neenahwi.
“I agree,” said Lady Grey, “and there may be one obvious candidate for you, Mareth. Your father arrived in the city this afternoon.”
Mareth considered this piece of news. He wasn’t surprised the real Lord Bollingsmead was coming to the city. In fact, Eden had thrown it in his face ten days past. He hadn’t seen his father in more than fifteen years, and they didn’t part on the best of terms. But every vote was vital, so he’d have to give it a try.
His thoughts about his father and family were interrupted by a steady banging on the door of the inn.
“Open up! City guard!” came a voice from the street.
Mareth looked to Lady Grey, who remained impassive, and then to Jules. She shrugged and walked over to the door to let them in. Motega and Florian silently pushed back their chairs from the table, ready for trouble.
Through the door, and out of the fog-filled street, walked an armored knight whom he recognized to be Sir Penshead, accompanied by a dozen city guard. Lady Grey’s men in the inn fell back to the edges of the room, allowing the visitors ample space.
“Mareth Bollingsmead,” said the knight, “I’m arresting you for inciting the people, assaulting the city guard, and destruction of private property. You’ll come with us.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” said Mareth. “Where’s the signed writ? This is obviously politically motivated.”
“I don’t need a writ to make an arrest,” he said. “These men here, and more waiting outside, say I can take you to jail where formal charges will be made. You are considered a danger to the peace.”
“And who is it, Sir Knight, who considers our Lord Bollingsmead to be a danger?” asked Lady Grey. “I assume it’s not you. Because, I have it on reliable information, you were relieved of your duty last night and you’re not the commander of the city guard anymore.”
Mareth couldn’t hide the surprise from his face. Lady Grey had more ears in private places than he could imagine. Jules was still standing by the door to the inn. She opened it again and took another look outside. She closed it, and then shook her head toward him.
“You have some balls, Sir Penshead,” said Mareth. “Do your men know you have no authorization to do this?” From the anxious looks between them, he could see some of them did not. But that wasn’t going to matter much if it came to a fight; they’d surely stand by their comrades. “And I don’t think you have enough men with you to get out of here in one piece. There’s no one outside.”
Motega and Florian stood and moved in opposite directions around the table, Dolph came out of the shadows, and Lady Grey’s guards drew their swords. The city guard mirrored their actions.
“We’ll see about that,” said the knight as he, too, drew his sword.
“Hold, all of you!” Neenahwi stood, arms above her head, a brilliant light shining from her hands and illuminating the whole of the inn, drawing everyone’s attention. “Listen.”
Everyone stopped. Mareth was waiting for her to say something about how this was stupid, we’re all Edlanders, or some other inspirational speech, but she didn’t say another word.
Then he heard it. Bells ringing in the night. Not just one, but many, and they weren’t tolling the hour. It was a constant pealing, irregular from one bell to another.
“Why’s the alarm being called?” asked Mareth. He ran out of the inn, past the knight and his guards, who didn’t try to stop him. They just stood there open-mouthed, trying to listen to the sound themselves. Mareth turned the corner to see to the east where the sound came from.
The fog was thick. Usually, he would have been able to see all the way to the market square, but the next corner was hardly visible. Though the visibility was poor, there was enough to be concerned about. Great blooms of orange light reflected in the fog, coming from the direction of the harbor.
And the bells still tolled.
Was Kingshold under attack?
Chapter 35
Running Toward Trouble
Motega was a few steps behind the bard as he ran for the door, a couple of things at the forefront of his mind. First, he, too, was concerned what the tolling of the bells meant. He’d never heard the city alarm rung here in Kingshold, but he’d experienced it before in other cities around the Emerald Sea, and it was never a good thing. Secondly, he didn’t trust these guards, who were apparently operating without authority, not to attack Mareth from behind.
“Get out of the way, man!” he called out to a guard who was about to follow Mareth out onto the streets, and, surprisingly, he stepped aside. Outside, the fog was thick, but Motega heard the sounds of chaos in the night. He caught sight of Mareth disappearing around the corner, and so, he pelted after him, almost colliding with the bard who had stopped dead in the street, looking at the blooms of yellow and gold reflecting in the fog bank.
“What the fuck is going on?” Motega asked the world at large.
“I don’t know. Doesn’t look good. Are we under attack?” said Mareth incredulously. Motega heard the others run from the inn, and then slow to a halt beside them.
“What in the name of Arloth is that?” asked the knight, the standoff of moments earlier seemingly forgotten. At least for a while.
“We’ve just covered that,” said Motega. “We don’t know.” He whistled, and Per flew down and landed on his forearm. Instructions were whispered into its ear, and then it took flight and disappeared into the fog. The bells were still ringing, coming from the harbor but, thankfully, the peeling hadn’t extended further into the city. No bells from the Curtain Wall hopefully meant there wasn’t an army outside the gates. But what was going on?
“So, do I remember rightly the bells weren’t ringing last night during the riot?” Motega asked all, and no one in particular.
“Correct, little brother,” said Neenahwi. “I’ve never heard the bells ring like this before. There’s something bad going on, and it’s that way. I suggest we stop gawping and we get to looking.”
Motega turned to face his sister. She had a look of concern, but she also seemed tensed and ready to be released, the glow in the night sky reflecting on her face. She met his gaze, and he nodded.
“You heard her,” said Motega. “Let’s go.” And he sprinted off, with Neenahwi only half a step behind.
At the rear, he heard Trypp call out a question, “Why are we always running toward trouble?”
They skirted the northern end of the Cherry Tree District before cutting to the south and toward the direction of the market square. It was a little out of the way from how the falcon would fly, but he wanted to keep to major streets and avoid ending up in dead ends or unexpected twists from heading through streets he didn’t know so well.
“I thought you could turn into a wolf?” he shouted over to his sister, his feet pounding the pavement, but she didn’t struggle to match his pace.
“I can,” she had to shout back to be heard, “but it’s pretty embarrassing later when
I change back, and I’m naked. Or you’d need to carry my stuff around.”
“Good point. You don’t want to excite Florian too much, not when he’s going to need to focus soon.”
The street was getting crowded, people trying to move in the opposite direction from where they were headed. The looks of fear, and glances over their shoulders, told Motega they were getting close as they reached the paved expanse of the market square. Motega and Neenahwi paused to catch their breath. He was surprised to see he needed it more than she did. How did she stay so fit if she sat around reading books all the time?
Florian, Mareth, Dolph, and Trypp caught up shortly afterward. The guards who’d been at the Royal Oak followed behind, with Penshead lagging last of all. Plate mail was not made for running, and Motega gave the knight credit for being able to keep up in any way at all.
As everyone gathered themselves, Motega closed his eyes and stepped into the body of Per. The falcon was flying low through the streets. It was too foggy to be able to see up high above the roof level, but he was flying too fast to be able to work out where he was. He saw bands of skirmishers, maybe marines, lightly armored, running through the streets, making barricades and attacking small groups of Edlanders.
Motega returned to his body, Florian and Trypp looking at him expectantly. They had come to rely on him and Per to tell them what they were about to step into.
“The city is definitely under attack,” said Motega. “I don’t know how or why, but there are a lot of fighters that way. Lightly armored but moving fast and looking to build defenses.”
“Defenses? That means they’re looking to hold instead of pushing further. At least for now,” said Florian. He played the part of fearsome fighter well, but Motega was no longer surprised by his sharp tactical brain.
“Maybe there are going to be more reinforcements?” suggested Trypp.
“Makes sense,” said Mareth. “In that case, we have to see what happened to the sea defenses and see if we can stop whoever it is from landing more troops.”
Penshead was trying to get air back into his lungs, observing the conversation among the four of them, seemingly puzzled by how Motega knew this information when he hadn’t been able to get that far in front of him. “You know this because of magic?”
“I guess you could say so,” Motega said.
“Did you see where these barricades were?”
“I don’t know exactly. But it was a broad street. Straight. I would guess Ships Row. It would make sense they’d try to block the major approach way.”
“Then I say let’s go that way,” said the knight, pointing to the northeast corner of the market square. “Through the Warehouse District where the streets are smaller.”
Motega shrugged, as did the others, and they ran out across the stone slabs, weapons drawn.
An overhand blow from the curved saber arched toward Motega. He blocked the strike with one ax, before bringing his other up and under his attacker’s small leather buckler. His target was lifted into the air with the impact of the weapon hitting his chest and biting through the leather armor. Eyes bulged as Motega wrenched his blade free.
Another skirmisher was ahead of him, attention focused on the big armored knight who had led them blundering into this squad of invaders. Motega struck the man in the small of the back and spun to meet another attacker coming from the alleyway.
They needed to ditch this walking bucket once this fight was over; he was a liability. Why on earth had Motega even followed him in the first place?
The invader in front of Motega was a big man, bald head, and holding a long spear, a sharp blade and a vicious looking hook combined at the end, that he waved in the air toward him. The spear probed forward in short stabs, Motega blocking them as he assessed Baldy. Another thrust, this time at his face, and he quickly deflected the attack upwards, but the spear came back down, the hook sticking into the back of Motega’s shoulder. It didn’t hurt too much, nothing he couldn’t handle. A few inches of steel in his body seemed to happen with disturbing regularity.
Baldy looked like the cat who had got the cream, pulling Motega toward him and forcing him to his knees. But Motega was grateful for the help. Now, he was inside the reach of the spear. One ax hooked Baldy’s foot from under him, and he fell on his arse, the other weapon burying itself in his groin.
Motega stood and looked around. Florian was helping the knight to his feet. The squad of invaders were down, and so were a couple of the guard, but all of Motega’s crew were safe. But not for long. It seemed like they’d charged into the snake’s nest. Coming toward them was another squad, with bows drawn, ready to fire.
“Run! Archers!” called Motega, pulling his sister as he fled back the way they’d come. Now Motega led the way, twisting and turning through narrow streets until he burst out onto the broad strip of Ships Row, connecting the market square with the harbor. Two score of city guard stood in the center of the street, surveying a barricade ahead of them, more archers standing on top, daring the guards to advance.
He stopped and waited for the others to catch up. “We need to get close to the harbor, and up high ideally, so we can see what we’re dealing with.”
“No. We should join with these guards and push through these barricades,” said the knight.
“Look, you can do what you like,” said Motega. “In fact, I think this is what you should do. We’ll go and find out what we’re dealing with.”
“I know a place in Dockside, a tavern called the Salty Hull,” said Trypp. “It’s got a roof with a view of the harbor. And it’s a warren down there. We’re well and truly cursed if we run into any more of these soldiers in Dockside.”
“You know, I’m not sure these are soldiers,” said Florian. “Did you see the way they were armored? It was all a mismatch. And no markings or insignia.”
“Sorry, Florian, I was too busy trying to stop them sticking me to look at their outfits,” said Trypp. “You want to try for the Salty Hull or what?”
No one else seemed to have a better idea. “Let’s go,” said Florian, but he turned to Penshead first. “You do know if it weren’t for me, your brains would be covering the street back there, don’t you? You owe me. Don’t forget it.”
The knight nodded.
Motega thought Florian put more stock in Penshead’s honor than he would.
The journey through the foggy Garden District was uneventful. Unfortunate people clothed in rags rummaged through piles of pungent discarded vegetables and fruits not good enough to sell at market anymore, but good enough to eat when they didn’t have anything else. A worm or two provided extra protein.
The food stores gave way to ramshackle wooden buildings, the order of the street layout disappearing around the same time the fog started to thin. Trypp led the way, eventually leading them to a dilapidated two-story structure, with a shingle hanging outside: the Salty Hull.
Dockside inns in any city were usually a place Motega only frequented when given no other choice. The regularity of brawls, and the various maladies that patrons and workers were afflicted with, made sure their lives were in more danger than strictly necessary to get a pint of pissy beer. Trypp walked past the main entrance, where the door was closed, likely barred shut, and skirted around the corner to come to a small door in the rear. Knock, bang, knock, tap, knock. His hand beat out a signal on the door, and he waited. Nothing happened, so he did it again, and this time the door opened a crack.
“Who is it?” came the voice from inside.
“Thorley. It’s Trypp. Let me in.”
“Nope. He’s dead.”
“I was dead, but I’m back to haunt your old bones. And to pay you those three silver marks I owe you.”
The magic words spoken, the door swung open and they were ushered inside quickly.
“You’re looking pretty good for a dead ’un,” said the old man, blessed with little hair and fewer teeth, who must be Thorley. “You want to hide? I got a room full of folks doing likewise. But
they’ll be ready to fight if those bastards try to come in here.”
“We need to get up on the roof. See what’s going on here,” said Trypp.
“Heh. Think yourself a hero now, do ya? Well, go ahead. Just keep your head down. I don’t want you attracting attention to us.”
Trypp led the way up narrow, rickety stairs to the widow’s watch. The inn was taller than the surrounding shanties, so it had a good view out over the harbor. The six of them stood by the railing and looked out. To their right was the entryway to the harbor between the stone walls of the sea defenses and in front was the wide-open space of water beyond the docks. There floated more than twenty anchored galleons, releasing smaller longboats rowing troops to shore. Many of the vessels moored along the dockside were on fire.
“That’s odd. They don’t look like typical warships,” mused Motega.
“Yep,” said Mareth, shaking his head. “They look like corsairs to me.”
“How can you tell?” asked Trypp.
“I recognize some of the ships. I’m familiar with the North Sea Corsairs.”
About to ask the bard how familiar he was with a bunch of pirates to know what their ships looked like, Motega turned to look at Mareth. But the thought left him as his attention was drawn down the line of waterfront buildings toward the Warehouse District. Even with his poor eyesight he could see an island, bigger than the market square, in the harbor where none had been before. A humped island with buildings on the back of it, with what looked like a tower at the tallest point.
“Look,” said Motega, pointing at what he’d seen.
“How did that get here?” asked Neenahwi. More invaders were running to and from the island, close enough to shore to use gangplanks. Motega couldn’t make out any details, so he reached out to Per once more.
The falcon soared high above the harbor, the fog clear here, like being in the center of a smoke ring. He swept over the corsairs’ ships and beat his wings to fly close to the invaders’ island. Motega wondered what manner of construct it could be to float a whole town, even one as ramshackle as this. Then, as Per swept in front of the island, closer to shore, Motega saw a massive reptilian head, chin resting on the cobbled street of Wetside, and suddenly things made sense.
Kingshold Page 33
